


Experienced Eyes

by AshSPN



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, If you are triggered by recreational drug use, M/M, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, please avoid this writing piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshSPN/pseuds/AshSPN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wasn't a saint, that was just a common known fact. Sherlock wasn't immune to human desires, not all the time. He had been addicted before, he was familiar with the cravings for another fix. This is three times that Sherlock met the man with experienced eyes. Two times, he was succumbed to the desire for his usage. The third time, he was clean.</p><p>Based off the quotes spoken in "A Study In Pink" during the drug-bust Lestrade had when Sherlock was withholding evidence. When looked at in a different context, this is what I got from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experienced Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was supposed to be an angsty piece of Sherlock's drug addiction, but turned into just a general writing piece without too much angst.
> 
> Based on the quotes from "A Study in Pink"
> 
> Sherlock: "I think you should shut up now."  
> John: "Yeah, but come on... No..."  
> Sherlock: "what?"  
> John: "You?"  
> Sherlock: "Shut up!"
> 
> This is unbeta'd so I hope you still enjoy!

Everyone gets there just a little bit too late, it’s just a fact of life. Sherlock is 18, out of the house already. He’s solving his own cases and giving anonymous tips to the police when they’re stuck – which is always. No one knows it’s him, thankfully, because there wouldn’t be a single person who would believe him. His breathing slows as he lays back, needle in his veins, injecting the drugs that made him feel human. When a single glance at a person could overwhelm you with their story, sometimes you needed to just feel normal. He always does this after a case is solved. He always does this after another murderer is put away. No one knows.

He’s high, it’s a high he craves, something he can’t give up. He has a cigarette against his lips and there are a group of males coming down the street. Most of them seem rowdy and loud. A quick second inspection proves that all of them do for the most part. There’s only one male in the group who seems a bit more calm. He’s only a few years older than Sherlock, but he seems so much more… experienced, almost as if he knew what he was doing in life. (Of course, Sherlock should know what he was doing in life by this point too, but that was beside the point.) They lock eyes, him and Sherlock, and it’s like Sherlock is drawn to him. It’s probably the drugs. Sherlock becomes a bit more personable with them.

The group of men go into the pub, breaking the eye contact between Sherlock and the man. Sherlock attempts to move after them into the pub but is stopped before he can enter. Sherlock can only comprehend that the man is demanding an ID. Sherlock didn’t have his ID on him, however and argues for a moment before he’s left outside. He fumes for only a moment before he’s moving to the side of the building and shooting up again. It’s a calming mechanism he’s made for himself. It puts him into a nice daze for a while. During these dazes, he finds some amusement in the stars and lights. As the night got darker, perhaps an hour later, Sherlock hears the door to the pub.

“I’ve got to go! I have uni classes in the morning!” A male voice says and Sherlock glances around to see the man who looked so much more experienced. Sherlock moves from where he was, swaying for a moment. The man begins to walk away. He must have gotten a response from his mates, but Sherlock hadn’t heard.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock calls, his voice a bit slurred. The man turns around to see if he was the one being addressed, stopping when he realizes he was. Sherlock stumbles to him and smiles a bit as he looks down – the man was shorter than he was. “Have you got a cig?”

“A cig? No, sorry mate,” The male says, looking at Sherlock a bit suspiciously, shuffling on his feet for a moment. “You don’t look too good. Need me to haul you a cab?”

“Oh no, you… you’re studying at uni then?” he asks and the male hesitates before nodding without a word. Sherlock tries to take a moment to make a clear deduction, but trying to fight against his drugged haze causes a headache. As he moves a hand to his forehead, he is suddenly swaying violently to the point of falling over.

“Oh!” The male says, managing to keep Sherlock up until he was leant against a wall. “Mate, you should be getting home. Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“No need,” comes a third voice, an older man, who is stepping out of a car that has stopped a few yards away. Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He looks up, finding the disapproving stare of his older brother. “My brother, my problem, I suppose is how it goes.”

“Hello Myc,” Sherlock murmurs, giving a bit of a smile, though it wasn’t fond. It looked more forced, like razors.

“Hello brother,” Mycroft says, giving the stranger a calculating look. “Thank you for your worry, your kindness won’t go unnoticed. You can be on your way now.”

The stranger hesitates, eyes finding Sherlock’s once more. They looked sincerely worried, as if Sherlock wasn’t just a junkie off the street. After a moment though, he just nods and hauls himself a cab. Sherlock watches as the cab disappears.

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?” Mycroft asks him softly as he supports his brother and takes him to the car he came in.

“Just living the dream,” Sherlock murmurs. He feels so human, basic. He loves it and that’s why he tortures himself with the effects of the drugs he uses. He does it for the feeling of when he needs a fix, for the cravings of a cigarette. He was curious to know what other people felt when desire hit them and they couldn’t handle it. Oh, what was he doing to himself?

By morning, it’s no surprise that Sherlock forgets about the stranger entirely. It had been another useless encounter with a man at the pub. The memory was well deleted, except for the experienced eyes that haunted his dreams.

 

Sherlock is 26 now. He’s in the back of a pub with other people just like him, the junkies of London. There’s a needle in his veins, making him feel like nothing else could. It’s a dark age, it’s been a dark near-decade. It’s been trying to stop and failing, of detoxing and binging. It’s been slowly hating his brother more and more each passing day, of deductions and murders, gruesome deaths. The police still don’t know it’s him, but one person has an idea. They don’t talk to each other. They just observe from a distance.

Mycroft gave him a long coat the last time Sherlock complained he was cold, as well as a scarf, he’d barely taken either off since. It’s like his security blanket for after a good fix. He only takes them off when he’s shooting up. It was a cold night in London. A rowdy group of soldiers were coming in and among them was someone that Sherlock vaguely remembered. Those experienced eyes of his dreams, his nightmares. They lock again, both of them recognizing, but not saying anything. Sherlock pulls the needle out of his arm almost too quickly and more than a bit of blood coming out, definitely more than normal. The recklessness of his actions were fallen upon numb nerves though. He just wraps his scarf around it to ease the flow. Mycroft won’t be happy to find this, but then again, when is Mycroft ever happy?

It’s about an hour or two later when Sherlock’s high peaks and he is heading over to the bar. He doesn’t have the build of the soldiers, the man with experienced eyes. He looks much less bulk and more smarts. Sherlock slides onto the stool next to him, managing to keep steady and coherent enough to order himself a drink. The Man with Experience looks at him for a moment, before looking down to the scarf that Sherlock forgot was on his arm, his eyes a bit glazed from his alcohol consumption.

“You really should stop,” The Man with Experience murmurs to him, and Sherlock gives a bit of a smile. It’s bitter, because he knows he should. He’s had plenty of people tell him on a daily basis. He gets his drink and sips at it slowly. “It can’t be good.”

“It’s a good rush, it feels good,” Sherlock murmurs, unsure of why he is trying to explain himself. He owed this man nothing. Even if he did, he didn’t owe him any explanation. The Man with Experience gives a sad little smile before tapping one of his mates, asking for a cig. Sherlock can just hear him saying he’s all out. “I’ve got a few,” Sherlock speaks up then. The Man with Experience turns to him and nods, just a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ll go out and smoke with you.” They both stand and Sherlock leaves his drink for the time being. As they reach the chilly winter air – God, why didn’t he grab his coat? – Sherlock pulls out a cig and offers it to The Man who shakes his head. Sherlock is confused. Hadn’t he just asked for a cig? Before Sherlock could comment, though, The Man just pulls the scarf off of Sherlock’s arm.

He looks at his track marks, fingers brushing against the ones that were scarred over. Sherlock couldn’t find the want to protest. The touch was so soft, so caring that it nearly brought Sherlock to tears. If anyone who didn’t shoot up with him saw them, they would look at him like he was a disgrace. This man, The Man, he was touching them like they were a battle scar. It doesn’t last long, though, because The Man is pulling out a flask. He dumps some of its content onto Sherlock’s lightly bleeding wound, gauging Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock doesn’t feel any of it, briefly wondering if he should feel a burn. The Man doesn’t say anything however as he wraps the scarf back around the wound. “Try to put something cleaner than whiskey on it when you get home,” The Man is saying to him, sounding so professional. “You’ll need a proper bandage too, and anything that could help it heal without a potential scar would be good.”

“You’re helping me and not calling the police,” Sherlock murmurs, the first thing coming to mind. The Man glances up at him, shrugging.

“Doctor and patient confidentiality,” he murmurs, as if it’s an excuse, and he smiles. Sherlock manages to smile back. He likes The Man’s eyes. They light up when he smiles.

“You’re a doctor then?” He asks, because he should know this, but he’s too far under to care.

“I am,” The Man confirms. Before Sherlock can even think about what he’s doing, he’s leaning in. There is something about the man that makes Sherlock want to succumb to the desire for love, for lust. The way he holds himself, the way he talks, the way he smiles. It made Sherlock more giddy than he thinks the drugs ever could. His lips press against The Man’s for a brief second. It’s enough to soothe Sherlock’s desires for now, surprising, so he pulls back. The Man stares at him for a moment, you could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. Sherlock wasn’t looking to get decked though, so with a smile, he heads back inside. He still had an unlit cigarette in his fingers and he drops it carelessly as he walks. He downs the remainder of his drink and pays the tab with an uneven wink to the bartender who just scowls at him. He heads once more to the back of the pub where he is greeted as if it’s been years. He feels jittery.

Another shoot up, and he’s forgotten what he shot up again for. Another drink and he can hear a fantasy melody. Next thing he knew, he’s dancing in the street when he’s pulled out of the way of a car by The Man with Experienced eyes.

“Try to stay alive,” he murmurs to him, drunker than Sherlock remembered. Or maybe he wasn’t. It could just be Sherlock. All he knew was the Man was leaving with his mates.  
“No promises,” Sherlock murmurs, moving to lean against the bar, sliding down it after a moment as he watches The Man walk away, disappearing. He wakes up in a bed, he’s forgotten everything about the previous night.

 

The nightmares get worse. They become night terrors where the experienced eyes judge him. He feels his arms burn. The headaches make him curl in on himself. Sometimes, he just screams at the walls to try and calm himself. Detox does worse every time he tries. It’s been 4 years since he’s seen the Man. He doesn’t even remember what he looks like, just his eyes. He finds himself in an alley one night. He’s all alone. He had thrown his phone at the wall and watched it shatter the other night. He hadn’t heard from Mycroft since. Now, he’s shooting up too quick, too much at a time. He feels like he’s developed an immunity to the regular doses. He just wants to feel normal. Yet he feels like his heart is going too fast. He needs to find help. He’s attempts to sway into the street, trying to get someone to see him. It’s early in the night, but everyone would be leaving their jobs and the pubs for work the next day. He doesn’t remember falling, but he’s on the ground. The world is spinning, but then it goes black.

He wakes up in a hospital bed. He’s hooked up to machines, an oxygen mask on his face, and his lungs ache. Mycroft is in the chair beside him, talking to the man who knew it was Sherlock who gave all the clues. They were talking softly, Sherlock couldn’t make out the words over the sound of his blood in his ears and the machines. He must have made a noise, because both men turn to look at him. Mycroft is quickly standing when he sees Sherlock’s eyes are open and the other man – a Detective – is moving to get a nurse.

Sherlock isn’t awake for long that day, nor any day after. He feels so weak, so empty. He’s admitted into rehab as soon as he can stand properly and on his own. He runs off in a week. Detoxing with no contact to anyone from the outside world was always so much easier. The only thing keeping him company were the eyes in his nightmares. When he finally comes back, Mycroft helps him find a better living establishment and helps him get a job. His deduction skills are back, and he makes his own job – consulting detective. DI Lestrade comes to him when they’re stuck – which is always. Sherlock still smokes cigarettes.

 

It’s years later when Sherlock is working in St. Bart’s looking for a flatmate when Mike Stamford came in with another man. A true coincidence, isn’t it? The man was limping, older, military haircut, and as soon as Sherlock reached his eyes, those dreams from the past came back. The same spark of recognition isn’t given in return. The other man doesn’t even seem to catch it. Those eyes seem more experienced than they were before, years ago.

John Watson was his name, he learns. The Man with Experience was named John Watson. It was hard to believe name so ordinary belonged to a man who seemed so extravagant. Sherlock uses John’s phone, subtly looking it over before handing it back. Sherlock is quick about everything. He mentions his potential problems that could come about when they were flat mates and tells him to meet him as a potential flat the next evening. He’s gearing up to leave when John interrupts him.

“So that’s it then?” John questions. Sherlock stops what he’s doing for a moment, glancing to the doctor.

“What?” Sherlock asks, continuing his actions by shrugging on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat?” He asks, causing Sherlock to suppress a smirk.  
“Problem?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow, almost challenging the other man.

“We don’t know anything about each other. I know you go days without speaking and you like to play the violin. I don’t even know your name, nor where we’re going to be meeting.”

“You’re an army doctor, you’ve just recently come home from Afghanistan. You’ve got a brother who is worried about you, yet you refuse his help because you don’t approve of his alcoholism and the fact he’s recently walked out on his wife. You have a psychosomatic limp, and we’re going to be meeting at 221B Baker Street. The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock rattles off, admiring the look of pure surprise on the other’s face before Sherlock is offering a wink. With a whip of his coat is heading out the door again.

It’s later, after the crime scene, after nearly everything, when Lestrade comes into their flat for a god-damned drug bust because Sherlock was “withholding evidence” that it comes out. John is rambling on about there was no way Sherlock was a junkie and Sherlock just wanted him to shut up.

“John, you might want to shut up now,” Sherlock mutters to him and John turns to look at him.

“Yeah, but come on…” he murmurs, then there’s a flash of something – recognition, surprised recognition – “No…”

“What?” Sherlock asks, hoping he was wrong that the other remembered, but hiding his fear.

“You?” John whispers, and Sherlock knows the other remembers.

“Shut up,” he mutters before he’s talking to the room as a whole again.

After the case, after John saves Sherlock’s life and they are in the flat, John looks at Sherlock. He’s studying him, trying to figure out what he was in for.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” John murmurs to him and Sherlock just looks at him for a moment.

“You’ve seen me twice before, third time happens to always be the charm,” he says softly in response and John gives a bit of a smile. When John returns to his typing, entranced in whatever it was he was saying, Sherlock smiles to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want a follow-up piece, leave kudos or comment below! Any prompts you have I will take at my tumblr: 
> 
> ferrets-and-dildos.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you!


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